


Grow

by nellasera



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Language, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Pansy Parkinson, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Postwar Healing, Redemption, Sex, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellasera/pseuds/nellasera
Summary: One year after the war, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy are placed into a six month government mandated rehabilitation program. Along the course of the program the two Slytherins learn to navigate their new lives and relationships after the war. In the process they learn about themselves, find forgiveness, and even find unexpected love. [ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 127
Kudos: 150





	1. June & July

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this Panville/Dramione fic! Here are some things to know:
> 
> 1) This fic is Pansy + Draco centric and alternates between their POV’s. Dramione is technically a side pairing because we don’t hear from Draco’s POV until chapter 3, but then it gets essentially as much attention as Panville. Both pairings need a little time to get going.
> 
> 2) I wanted to note two things regarding ships that I did not tag. First, that we start with Hermione and Ron together, though it doesn't feature heavily in the fic. Also, there WILL be some sexual scenes that are not the end game pairings (between Draco and Pansy). There are no feelings involved so I did not tag it as a romantic relationship, but I thought I would note it here. They are somewhat descriptive but brief; but if that really would bother you, this fic may not be for you. I'm still learning tagging etiquette with such things, but my thought process was that I did not want to clutter the tags for people looking to read actual Romione and Dransy :)
> 
> 3) I have another series posting as well, so for now this will be updated once a week when possible, biweekly when not.
> 
> I have a whole lot of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy reading it! If you'd like to chat with me, you can also find me on Tumblr (rosecadence). Thank you for giving this a try, and I hope you enjoy :)

**June, 1999.**

“So, Miss Parkinson. Why are you here today?”

The woman opposite her daintily crossed her legs. She was wearing a pencil skirt that came to her knees and a dark button-up shirt. Very classically professional. When Pansy pursed her lips and glanced up, the other woman carefully adjusted her glasses, momentarily balancing her clipboard on her knee, before leaning back and staring politely at Pansy, waiting for an answer.

She certainly looked the part. Pansy gave her that much.

“Because,” said Pansy, “I was told to be.”

She was given a brief smile. A real one. Not irritated in the slightest by Pansy’s surliness. Only patient. Pansy already found herself wondering when she would get under this woman’s skin and past the professional façade.

“Let’s go deeper than that,” she suggested politely.

Pansy let out a long-suffering sigh. “I was told that part of my government mandated Pureblood supremacist rehabilitation program included a requirement about attending regular therapy sessions for six months. Is that deep enough for you?”

Her therapist tilted her head, not offended at all. “Your tone suggests disdain for being here, Pansy.”

“I was not aware we were on first name terms, Miranda,” answered Pansy snidely.

“We’re on whatever terms you’d like. Would you prefer me to call you Miss Parkinson?”

Pansy gnashed her teeth together.

This woman was infuriating. She did not respond to Pansy as others did, and Pansy did not like that. She liked knowing what was coming next. She liked being able to predict the other person’s behavior. If she said something mean or irritating, they would be upset. Logical.

Nothing about this therapy thing was logical.

Again, Pansy wondered how long it would take her to make her therapist lose her temper.

She briefly considered making that a personal goal for these sessions.

At least _that_ would be entertaining.

“Yes,” said Pansy finally, lifting her chin haughtily. “I would like to be called Miss Parkinson.”

“Very well.” Miranda gave her another smile. “I want you to be comfortable. For our first few sessions, we’ll just be getting to know each other, Miss Parkinson. I want to get to know your background and get an idea of who you are, so I’ll ask questions that you can answer as best as you’d like. You can ask me questions too. Sound good?”

“Do I have any other choice but to say yes?”

“Of course, Miss Parkinson. You always have a choice here.” Pansy just folded her arms and gave her an irritated glare, and Miranda the therapist continued. “So. Perhaps you could tell me how you came to be in this Pureblood supremacy rehabilitation program exactly. It might be easier to work from the very beginning. Often childhood provides many answers about our psyche. Where did you first hear the idea that Purebloods were superior?”

* * *

After the war, Pansy found herself flitting listlessly from hobby to hobby.

She tried baking. And cooking. She tried knitting. Pansy tried to paint and sing and craft and play piano. She worked on becoming fluent in French, and she went antiquing.

She was decent at some of it, awful at other things, and her French was fucking amazing.

But nothing brought her joy.

* * *

The Pureblood supremacy rehabilitation program began one year after the war.

It was divided into three main parts.

The first part was a series of classes twice a week. Pansy hated them. They were held by swot extraordinaire Hermione Granger, all about the history and literature and technology of ‘Muggle culture’ and interactions between magical people and Muggles in Europe. She talked about witch hunts and fear in the Middle Ages. She talked about how fear often underlies prejudice: fear of the unknown, fear of persecution, fear of the other. She emphasized each point with historical examples and anecdotes from the Muggle and magical worlds and gave them assigned readings about the events. She made them write essays and give speeches and have debates.

They were learning more in one year than in their entire Hogwarts education in History of Magic.

Hermione Granger as a teacher was unforgiving, and Pansy hated it.

Worse was that Granger clearly loved every minute of it.

She was so _passionate_ about it.

When she talked about the subjects, her eyes lit up. Her cheeks got a rosy glow. She spoke with such eagerness that Pansy wanted to run to the front of the room and shake her.

The second part of the program was ‘immersion.’

Somehow, Pansy found it even worse than the classes.

The activities were led by a group of Muggleborns and Halfbloods that knew their way around Muggle culture, and with Hermione Granger naturally in charge once again. Even more irritating was that other Purebloods that had not been forced into the program were taking part in this as a way of “understanding the other culture.” So not only did she have to deal with little miss perfect Hermione _fucking_ Granger; no, there was also Finch-Fletchley and Thomas and Ronald _fucking_ Weasley and Potter and Longbottom and Macmillan and Abbott...god, the list of self-righteous pricks went on and on.

It was just as bad as being at Hogwarts.

No. Worse.

They had chosen to be here. She hadn’t.

And they all hated her. She could see it in their eyes.

For these activities they baked and they cooked without magic, or they watched movies and talked about them, and they played Muggle sports or learned to drive Muggle cars or did pottery and a whole bunch of other things that Pansy couldn’t bring herself to enjoy either.

Everyone else seemed to enjoy something. Even Draco got excited about the sports and the films.

It was thankfully only once a week, not twice, but Pansy wanted to strangle someone each time.

And the third part of the program was the bloody therapy.

It was going to be a very long six months.

* * *

**July, 1999.**

Sweat was beading at Pansy’s hairline.

Malfoy Manor was usually a very cool place in the summer but today was unnaturally hot, and she was currently in the middle of a very strenuous activity; though, to be fair, Draco was doing more of the work than she was this time.

She bunched his expensive sheets in her fists and pressed her face into a pillow to muffle her choked gasps as he picked up the pace, his hands gripping her hips. He was being rougher than usual today; his fingers on her might leave bruises, and his thrusts were relentless.

He was upset about something.

Well, Draco always seemed upset about _something_ , but today he was clearly particularly bothered.

By now, she knew when he was upset by his method of fucking.

He would enter her as soon as possible, only wasting enough time on foreplay to get her glistening, and then he would push her onto her hands and knees on the bed and plunge in. Always from the back, and always driving into her so hard and fast that by the end she was almost whimpering.

Their arrangement had started a few weeks ago.

It was one of those things that seemed to make sense.

Draco was her last friend. The only one that seemed to be able to stand being seen with her in public, and she knew she functioned as much the same person for him. The outcasts. The vocal haters of Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World.

Potter himself, perfect as he was, seemed to have forgiven them. He was decent enough to them at the cultural immersion classes once a week.

The rest of the community, however, did not seem ready to extend that forgiveness yet.

Draco and Pansy had each other, at least, and to them it only made sense that they did a tumble in the sheets every now and then. Pansy had lost her virginity to Draco in Hogwarts in fifth year, and they had slept together a few times since then up until somewhere in sixth year. So by now they had done the deed enough times with each other to know how to make it enjoyable.

Easy. Predictable. Comfortable.

Besides, Pansy was quite certain that no other man in Wizarding Britain would touch her with a ten foot pole. Draco, too, was less than popular with women these days. And while _he_ was stooping low enough to go out to Muggle Britain and find women to shag, Pansy would do no such thing.

Draco’s hips were moving more erratically, and his breathing pattern had changed. She calculated that she had about two minutes left; she reached down and began rubbing her clit furiously.

She came first, clenching hard around him and gasping into the pillow, and then she felt him follow her into his climax, groaning and twitching inside her until he pulled out and they collapsed onto his bed, exhausted and far, far too hot.

“Well,” said Pansy finally, after their breathing had subsided, “Much appreciated, Draco. I know I needed a rigorous fuck to relax me before tonight’s lovely cultural segment of the program.”

He was already standing and slipping his boxers back on. “You really hate it, Pans.”

She propped herself up on her elbow and stared at him. “Don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Some parts are actually fun. I liked the sport we played last week. Basketball.” He pulled his shirt back on, and then he paused. “Plus, the classes are actually really interesting, even if Granger does overload us with the schoolwork part.” His eyes had a far-off glimmer in them that Pansy couldn’t interpret. “I didn’t know most of the things we’re learning,” he admitted quietly.

 _Traitor_ , Pansy thought viciously, but she only curled her lip and said, “That stupid Muggle bitch gets off on making us do all that, doesn’t she? Probably volunteered so she could lord it over us.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He just hunted around on the floor for his trousers and put them on.

When he was done getting dressed, he finally looked at her. “Might want to hurry up,” he advised. “Otherwise we’ll be late. I’ll go shower. Meet you at the Floo.”

And with that he left the room, leaving Pansy wondering why she felt that someone she didn’t even have nor want was slipping away from her, too.

* * *

“So,” said Hermione Granger, looking around at them all from the front of the room with a smile. She attempted to tuck some of her hair behind her ear and failed. “Since it’s summer, we’re going to start a gardening project. Gardening with your hands and being in nature is supposed to be therapeutic and I hope will be fun for everyone. Everyone will have a partner and share a garden plot. You can decide everything else; the only rule is no magical plants or using magic.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose and scoffed. She knew that verbally expressing displeasure in these classes would get her written up, and that would mean repeating the entire program. So she had learned to keep her mouth shut. But she could still show her nonverbal disdain, and she did.

Granger always ignored it. It drove Pansy to madness.

Pansy’s eyes slid hopefully to Draco. He was looking at her, too, clearly thinking the same thing: that they would obviously be partners.

But then Hermione _fucking_ Granger began picking their partners for them.

 _Stupid, authoritarian cunt_ , thought Pansy savagely, hoping her death glare was enough to send the woman the message of what she thought about all this and about her. Granger did not seem to notice, and Pansy longed to sprint forward and see just how much of that bushy hair she could rip out. She almost broke down and said something when she was paired with Neville Longbottom.

Pansy didn’t look over at him. Of course she’d be paired with fucking Longbottom. The Wizarding World’s other perfect little hero. Ugh.

If there was one good thing about this, at least it was that Longbottom was obsessed with Herbology. He would probably do all the work and she could soak up some sun.

“Hi, Pansy,” he said when he approached her. His face was cautious.

“Longbottom,” she said, throwing him a look of utmost displeasure. “I suppose you of all people have a hard on for this idea, don’t you?”

“I’m the one who suggested it to Hermione,” he told her, mouth quirking in amusement. She just stared back stonily. “Shall we go to our plot?”

“Sounds delightful,” said Pansy sardonically, standing and following him outside.

The community center provided by the Ministry was protected by magic, and also magically enlarged. This meant that there was plenty of space for many outdoor garden plots, each one separated by rows of neat little hedges.

“So,” said Neville, and a familiar light had entered his eyes. Pansy recognized it because it was the light Draco got talking about Quidditch, or that Granger got when she was talking about her nerd topics at the front of a room where people where forced to listen. “What do you think we should plant? Obviously I was thinking of the basics: some tomatoes, some cucumbers, maybe some peas. But some more difficult ones would be fun to try, and I thought maybe you’d like to do some flowers, you know, we could really–”

“Why?” Pansy interrupted coldly.

He faltered. “What?”

“Why do you think I would want to do flowers? Because I’m a woman?”

“I–I don’t know,” stammered Neville, looking suddenly nervous. “I just thought you might appreciate pretty things. You’re always dressed so nice and your hair and nails are always...” He flushed. “Well, okay. Do you not want to do the flowers? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to do any of it,” said Pansy nastily. “And I’m certainly not digging around in the fucking dirt like a common peasant.”

Neville sighed. “Maybe you could just do the easy part and pick out some plants, Pansy.”

“Fine,” she sniffed. “How do I do that?”

“There are packets of everything in that trough over there.” He pointed. “I’ll start preparing the soil, and you can just bring some things that look good to you.”

Pansy just stalked over to the place he indicated without looking at him.

She couldn’t wait until this was fucking over.


	2. Early August

Pansy had found a lawn chair, and every one of the sweltering evenings that she had to spend at the stupid garden plot she simply settled in, opened a magazine, and ignored Longbottom as best she could. Today she was wearing a floppy sun hat and cream-colored shorts with a floral top, and she kicked off her shoes with a content sigh.

“Pansy.” Longbottom sounded very cross this time, so she glanced up.

“What?” she drawled.

He was very flushed and clearly a little exhausted; beside him was a gigantic pile of weeds. He had gardening gloves on and dirt streaks across his face and on his forearms. She found her eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on his chest and shoulders and kicked herself for it until he said, “Unless you want to be here longer, I suggest you help me.”

She scoffed. “If you think I’m pulling weeds, Longbottom, you are stupider than I thought.”

“Afraid to break a nail?” he bit out, and she raised her eyebrows in cold appraisal.

“I am perfectly willing to break a nail for a good cause. _This_ is not a good cause.”

“You know, you might actually like gardening if you try it out, Pansy.”

“Doubtful.” She opened her magazine again with a dramatic flourish, signaling the end of the discussion, but Longbottom was clearly feeling relentless today.

“Hermione will notice eventually that you aren’t really participating, you know.”

She served him her best glare. “You’d better not fucking snitch, Longbottom."

Pansy turned back to her magazine, ignoring his exasperated groan.

* * *

Sure enough, Pansy couldn’t hide from Granger forever.

It was her hair that Pansy caught sight of first, and she jolted when she fully realized that Granger standing there, arms folded and giving Pansy a severe look, having come by to find Pansy suntanning and taking a light snooze while Longbottom dug around in the dirt as he always did. “Parkinson, if you don’t do something I’ll be forced to write you up.”

And then Granger just gave a resigned sigh. “Just plant something, would you?”

Pansy threw her a vicious glare and got to her feet, flouncing over to where Longbottom was weeding, wrinkling her nose, and glancing over her shoulder. Granger had moved on to a different plot, but she was still carefully watching Pansy. Scowling, Pansy knelt down.

“Fine. Longbottom. How do I plant something?”

“Read the instructions.” He didn’t look up from his work.

Huffing, Pansy chose a packet of flowers and flipped it over to read how to go about planting them. There were instructions about how deep in the soil one should plant and environments and amounts of sunshine and water.

She squinted at it for a while before she felt Longbottom’s eyes on her. “What?” she snapped.

He sighed and scooted closer. “Here. Start by digging out an area for the seeds. Make it about that deep.” He pointed to another area of the garden plot where he had clearly begun a planting project, but had paused halfway through to weed.

“Can’t I just use that area instead?”

“No. That’s mine.” His mouth twitched when she stared at him furiously. “Get digging, Pansy.” He folded his arms, clearly amused by her reluctance.

“Arsehole,” she muttered, leaning forward and getting to work.

Pansy peeked at him from time to time as she dug in the dirt. She would never admit it, but it was actually quite soothing to touch the earth, to feel it sifting through her fingers. When Longbottom was concentrating, he got a crease on his forehead. When he leaned forward, his hair fell a little into his eyes, and he had a habit of impatiently swiping it away and getting dirt on his face.

“Why do you like doing this?” she found herself asking him.

It took him a moment to answer. “It’s calming,” he said finally, yanking particularly hard on a stubborn weed. Pansy tried to ignore the way his arm muscles bulged against his T-shirt. “I like taking care of something. Nourishing it. Giving life.” He wiped his brow again with the back of his arm, pushing more dirt around his forehead as he did so, and then he looked at her. “I often do a lot of it by hand, even when I can use magic. My hands are steadier when I do it manually.”

“Your hands?”

He held up one arm. She watched for a moment and saw that it trembled violently in the air. He gave her a small smile when her questioning gaze slid to his. “Might always be that way. Too much exposure to Cruciatus that last year at Hogwarts, I was told.”

Pansy’s suddenly couldn’t swallow. She remembered that year with the Carrows. He had purposefully deflected torture from so many others onto himself. “Oh,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Pansy.” He gave her a kind smile. “Are you ready to put the seeds in?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Take a handful and sprinkle them in. Just be sure not to have clusters that are too thick or too thin. Make it as evenly spread as possible.”

“Right,” she muttered, turning back to her task. When that was done, he showed her how to push the dirt over the seeds. He was very meticulous about it. Almost overly so. He made sure it was perfectly even. “Why are you doing it like that?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“The environment is the most important thing, so I want to be certain,” he answered. “If something doesn’t have a good environment, it can’t thrive.”

His hand brushed hers as he pushed dirt around, and he looked up into her eyes. The look on his face was a little sad and very intent.

Pansy felt her pulse speed up and her throat get tight.

Quickly, she withdrew her hand further away, clearing her throat. “What next?” she said roughly. “I want this over with so I can go back to my magazine.”

His eyes flickered, but then he pointed at a watering can and turned away.

* * *

“–and she’s horrible, I can’t stand listening to her and I have to do it three times a _fucking_ week. And I mean, Longbottom? Really? The only thing that made these things bearable was being able to partner with Draco, even if he is acting weird lately. I don’t know what’s worse. The horrendous classes where we have to listen to Granger ramble, or the gardening where Longbottom drones on and on about fucking _plants_. I mean, just because he’s one of those classic cases of people that got incredibly hot at the _end_ of school and–and got muscles, and came into himself or _whatever_ –and that he’s another perfect little _hero_ –does not mean I want to be around him. Then from the others there’s all the sidelong looks and the glares and the clear fact that everyone hates me. Not that I care, but it’s so bloody _boring_. I’m going absolutely spare.”

Miranda the therapist waited patiently for Pansy to finish her rant. The question had been ‘How was your week, Miss Parkinson?’ and Pansy had gone on for nearly five minutes.

When she was finally finished Pansy settled back into her chair, folding her arms and still breathing hard.

“There’s a few things I’d like to unpack there,” said Miranda, and Pansy glared at her. “First, this idea that everyone hates you. You say this every session, Miss Parkinson. Multiple times.”

“Well, it’s true,” said Pansy roughly.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because I’m a raging bitch? Because I publicly tried to hand over the precious hero of our world to the Dark Lord at Hogwarts? Just guesses.”

Her therapist was writing furiously. “How do people act like they hate you?”

“I get glares. And no one talks to me.”

“No one? From what you’ve told me of this Mr. Longbottom, he seems more than willing to talk to you. You also told me that...” She flipped through her notes again. “And I quote: ‘ _Harry Potter is too perfect for his own good and is actually nice to me. I hate him_.’”

Pansy scowled. “Well, maybe _they_ don’t hate me anymore. But they only spend time with me because they have to. The only person that likes having me around is Draco.”

Miranda nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s talk about Draco for a moment. He is your longtime friend, correct? He comes up often when you speak about your childhood.”

“That’s right.” Pansy examined her fingernails, but her therapist did not seem to mind that she was seemingly disinterested in the conversation.

“What’s your relationship like now? Is it good?”

“Mostly. It’s nice to have him in the program with me. And he’s useful for a good fuck.”

Miranda blinked, but otherwise showed no emotion at Pansy’s crudeness. “I see. So your relationship is also sexual? How long has it been that way?”

“Since school. Well–it stopped a while, but we picked back up with it recently.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed just slightly as she scribbled something down. “Hmm. And how do you feel toward him emotionally? Are romantic feelings involved?”

“Oh, god no.” Pansy shuddered. “Not anymore. Draco is even more of a disaster than I am.”

“Not anymore? Were you a couple?”

“No.” Pansy’s mouth suddenly thinned. “He never had feelings for me that way. I had an infatuation with him in school, but that went away in about sixth year or so.”

“So it was one-sided.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “If you’re suggesting I still want Draco, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not suggesting that, Miss Parkinson. But I do think that sleeping with your friend Draco is both a familiar comfort pattern for you and also a manifestation of your low self-esteem. I think the part of you that wants to be loved and adored is clinging to old patterns, even if the feelings aren’t there. It is perhaps easier to deal with Draco’s dismissal as you always have than to risk someone else’s.”

Pansy was shaking with rage. “First of all, fuck you,” she snarled. “Secondly, no one else would fuck me, and I need sex. This is a physical need. That is all.”

Miranda observed her for a moment. “I am more concerned with how you are fulfilling your emotional needs, Miss Parkinson.” She tilted her head. “I also noted a lot of rage surrounding Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. You frequently describe them as rambling, irritating, and overly enthusiastic about their hobbies.”

“That’s because they are.”

“Perhaps,” said Miranda gently, “You hate their passions because you wish you had one. The anger you feel is toward yourself. You are projecting.”

“This is fucking horrible,” Pansy snapped. “Are you being paid for this? No. They are just annoying.”

“If therapy were easy, it wouldn’t be worth doing, Miss Parkinson,” Miranda reminded her. “But I seem to recall you telling me that you have tried various hobbies for the past year, but nothing seems to spark joy. That is a common sign of being depressed. The anger you feel seems to be triggered by many sources, but the specific anger regarding their hobbies may be there because it reminds you how much you wish _you_ had something that you loved. But what you are feeling is normal. There is nothing wrong with you, Miss Parkinson. The sooner you stop blaming yourself for how you are, the sooner you can really begin to make improvements and feel better.”

To Pansy’s horror, a lump rose in her throat and her chest tightened. She wished she could throw a vicious insult at the other woman, but her brain was curiously blank.

“Just fucking call me Pansy,” she muttered, looking away, for something to say and to distract from the sudden burning she felt in the corner of her eyes.

* * *

When she left that session, she went directly to Draco’s place, pushed him on his couch, and didn’t even bother discarding clothes. She unzipped him and pulled him out, shoved her panties to the side, and rode him so hard that she was probably nearing heat stroke by the time she came.

Fuck Miranda the therapist.

What did she know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we hear from Draco :) Thank you for reading!


	3. Late August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone giving love to this story! I hope you enjoy angsty disaster Draco Malfoy this chapter ;)

** Late August, 1999 **

Draco Malfoy had never been more embarrassed in his life.

His weekly therapy was easily the worst part of this whole rehabilitation program. He knew that Pansy hated the classes more, but honestly, he would gladly do the classes every day of the week if it meant he didn't have to come to therapy. He actually quite enjoyed the classes; not that he would tell her that.

But here?

Here he was forced to talk about his childhood and his _feelings_ and a whole host of other atrocious things, all while a woman politely kept trying to force more out of him; then she began making shrewd and irritatingly accurate observations about him.

He had thought talking about his upbringing would be the worst. The first few sessions she had asked prying questions about how often he had been hugged or how often there had been open displays of emotion or affection in his household and plenty of similarly unpleasant things. And then she had delved right into his superiority complex and talked about shattered worldviews and the realization that parents are just people that are sometimes or even often wrong; and she spoke about how he seemed to have an underlying and burning sense of self-hatred and guilt as well as a desperate need for physical and emotional intimacy.

Highly, highly unpleasant.

But no.

He had been wrong. Why did he always have to be so, so wrong?

_Today_ was easily the worst session.

“Draco,” said Miranda the therapist, “If you don’t tell me what happened, I can’t help you identify and work through the emotions you are having about it.”

“That’s perfectly fine with me,” he snapped. “I’ll forget about it in a few days.”

Blatantly untrue, and the therapist’s skeptical quirked eyebrow clearly told him she knew this.

“Draco.” Her face was kind, and he squirmed a little on his chair. “There is nothing you can tell me that will make me judge you, and everything you say to me is strictly confidential. I have told you this before. Now, why was there an argument between you and your friend Pansy?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to swallow and felt a burning in his cheeks that told him that his shame was making him fucking _blush_.

“She’s your patient too, I assume?” he asked instead.

Miranda nodded slowly. “Yes. She is.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll hear it from her,” he said snidely.

“But I want to hear it from you.”

He scowled. “Well, I’m sure you know by now that we’re fuck buddies.”

“I cannot discuss what Pansy and I talk about in our sessions, Draco. Focus on what _you_ need to tell me instead.” When he just gave her an icy stare, she sighed. “Start from the beginning, if that’s easier. In the morning. Tell me every detail of your day."

* * *

The day had started as any other.

Breakfast alone in his room. Doing the assigned work from class all morning (and then some out of pure interest, not that he would willingly admit that to anyone else).

Lunch with his parents. Which involved, as usual, Lucius Malfoy pouring copious amounts of rum into his tea and making snide remarks about the rehabilitation program and the Mudblood that ran it and what a waste of time it was, and what a brainwashing project the Ministry had forced upon his son.

And each day, as usual, Draco found a familiar ball of rage tightening in his chest whenever his father opened his mouth, but somehow he maintained his control and kept quiet. It wasn't worth arguing. He was certain of that.

In the afternoon he went for a long walk on the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

In the early evening he went to his class for the program, and he tried not to appear _overly_ interested in the material even though he was discreetly and continuously noting the books that Granger offhandedly mentioned so that he could read them, assigned or not.

It was at the end of the class that something out of the ordinary happened.

“Malfoy,” Granger called, after she had dismissed them and everyone was packing up their things, “Could I see you for a moment?”

He racked his brain to think of something he could have done wrong. But he had been perfectly well-behaved. Turned in all of his assignments. Tried not to sneer at people. Still, it was with some trepidation that he approached Granger as everyone else began to file out.

When he reached her, she took a deep breath and then gave him a dazzling smile. He blinked, surprised. He had not been expecting her to look so radiant. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Granger softly, “But I just wanted to say how impressed I am with your work here, Malfoy. You are taking it more seriously than I ever expected you to, and much more than the others, and...” She smiled again, and it was rather shy. “Well, I was quite nervous to do this program. I know I can be a bit...intense. But seeing your effort and interest has really...it’s been wonderful. Thank you.”

There was a strange sensation in his chest as he stared at her, completely taken aback. Like he was light and heavy at the same time. And his stomach was squirming uncomfortably. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “You’re...you’re a really good teacher, Granger.”

Her answering smile only increased the squirming in his stomach, and he was only able to manage a weak smile in return. She opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by a voice.

“Hermione! You’re finally done!”

It was Weasley, and he came loping into the room with a wide grin on his face. When he reached Granger he tucked an arm around her waist and kissed her before finally turning his attention to Draco. He didn’t say anything, but he was giving Draco a look that clearly told him he wanted him to leave. Draco knew the look very well by now. Draco momentarily set his rule about sneering to the side and sent Weasley a vicious one, and then without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

“Bye, Draco,” called Hermione kindly, and he mumbled a goodbye without looking back.

Pansy was waiting for him in the corridor. “What did she nag about this time?”

“Nothing,” muttered Draco, not looking at her as they started walking.

“Good. So are you coming over? I’d like to be fucked silly.”

That didn’t sound bad, but then again if sex ever started sounding bad to Draco he knew he’d be in real trouble. His mood was already low enough most of the time.

It started off well enough. Pansy seemed to be in a more desperate mood than usual, so it wasn’t long after they stumbled to the bed that she was straddling him and preparing to sink onto him. She adjusted her hips and reached back to take his cock, and…

After a few moments she narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt heat flare up on his face.

“What,” said Pansy, voice rising to a dangerously shrill level that predicated, in Draco’s experience with Pansy, a significant threat, “the actual fuck?”

“Just give me a minute,” he said desperately.

“You’re fucking soft! I can’t ride a flaccid dick, Draco.”

“I’m just as aware of the mechanics of sex as you are,” he snapped. “This has never happened to me before, all right? The worse you make me feel, the harder it is.”

“Clearly not,” she said, when another few moments passed and he was still very much _not_ hard. She rolled off and threw him a disgusted look. “You literally had one job.”

“I’m not your bloody vibrator,” hissed Draco. “Stop being such a bitch. It happens, okay?”

“You just said it’s never happened to you before,” she retorted. “So all those Muggles you have one night stands with, you can get it up? I just get the honor of not having you able to perform?” Her arms were folded defensively against her chest, her voice a vicious snarl.

“It isn’t personal, Pans,” he said roughly. “It’s not you.”

She snatched her skirt and slipped it on, looking as if she had just eaten a particularly sour lemon. “Whatever, Draco. I’m leaving. Thanks for nothing.”

And Draco watched her storm out, leaving him feeling indignant and rather horrified in her wake.

* * *

“Erectile dysfunction is nothing to be ashamed about,” said Miranda calmly.

“Pansy seemed to think otherwise,” Draco muttered.

There was a long pause, and Miranda seemed to be weighing her words carefully. “That does not mean it is a shameful thing. Pansy’s perception of the situation was different from yours, Draco. From her perspective, perhaps she feels she failed. Perhaps she felt unattractive. You’re an observant man. I’m sure you have noticed over your years of friendship that Pansy has staggeringly low self-esteem. And she is struggling as you are right now with all the...changes.” She paused again. “Other people’s emotions do not always excuse their behavior, but it’s helpful to try and consider their trigger points or see things from their point of view. That way, we learn not to take their actions personally or to conflate their opinions with our own.”

Draco swallowed hard, feeling rather desperate. “But I told her it wasn’t anything to do with her! And I’m supposed to be in my prime right now!”

She nodded. “Physically you are at prime sexual age, that’s true. If I thought it was a physical problem I would suggest you see a Healer. But I don’t think that. I think it is the casual nature of your sexual relationships that might be the problem.”

He rolled his eyes. “What, are you some kind of prude?”

“I don’t know what you define as a prude, Draco,” she said, still calm as always. “But if you’re asking whether I think casual sexual relationships are a problem, I will correct you. I don’t believe that. Quite the contrary. Generally speaking, they can be a healthy source of fun and stress relief.”

“So what’s the fucking problem?”

“It sounds to me,” she said, “That your drive for sex is a mere compulsion. An escape. Not an activity you do for mutual enjoyment. We’ve talked about your need for intimacy before.”

“Pansy is a friend, and I care about her as a friend,” he said harshly. “So you’re wrong. I don’t have some sort of secret desire for intimacy with her or any of the other women I sleep with.”

“Yes, I know,” said Miranda, her voice very quiet and gentle. “I think, Draco, that is precisely the root of the problem. For sex, you specifically seek out women that are ‘safe.’ That is easier, after all, than being emotionally _and_ physically intimate and opening yourself up to the possibility of real rejection.”

He just glared at her and sank lower in his seat.

Worst session _ever_.


	4. Early September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the little hiatus! I was in a bit of a difficult headspace with the fics I was posting. I was still trying to write and plow ahead though so I can get back to a regular schedule. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

“Your flowers look really nice, Pansy. You picked lovely colors.”

Pansy blinked. The early evening sun wasn’t bright in the slightest, but when she turned slightly to glance at Neville from her crouching position on the ground she was squinting at him almost like it was noon, suddenly very suspicious.

She was half expecting him to add a jibe or a caveat to the compliment.

“Thank you,” she said slowly, her dark eyes traveling about his face.

Neville Longbottom just gave her a sincere smile and turned back to his weeding.

This had become quite a regular occurrence over the past few weeks. Pansy, due to the ever watchful eyes of Granger, had become more active in the actual gardening project. She had dug around in the dirt so much with her bare hands that afterward she would go home and would have to spend at least half an hour cleaning her fingernails; eventually she gave up on having fake nails for a time.

Pansy had weeded and planted and tended all by hand, and every once in a while she would feel Longbottom’s eyes lingering on her while she did so.

“What?” she had snapped the first couple of times this had happened, feeling flushed and dirty and more than a little bit self-conscious. As a general rule, she never allowed others to see her in such a state—her mother had taught her that was the height of an unrefined woman—but now, as she had no choice, Neville Longbottom especially was seeing a lot of it.

Longbottom always shrugged, a small smile dancing across his lips, before going back to his own work. Sometimes he leaned forward to help her or give her a tip.

He also talked. At first, Pansy threw him ball shriveling glares and hoped he would get the message to shut up. But after a while, she found it...almost nice.

Like the gardening itself, it had grown on her.

Stupid Neville Longbottom.

The compliments were something that still made her wary though. Every time he said one she waited for a punch line. Waited for him to reveal the thing that he must want from her. She had never met someone so free with praise without some ulterior motive or hidden agenda.

When a hidden agenda continued not to reveal itself, it confused her.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she blurted out after a pause.

He looked up in surprise. “Would you rather I be mean?”

“I’d rather you be honest,” said Pansy simply.

“I _am_ being honest. Do you think nice people aren’t honest?” He looked truly bewildered.

She sniffed and rose her chin. “In my experience, no. They are not.”

Neville stared at her for a long time. She aggressively tried not to see how his hair hanging in his eyes was still uncomfortably attractive, even if he had dirt streaks on his face from the way he always tended to swipe the back of his hand across it in exhaustion. But somehow, the dirt only added to his appeal.

She imagined him under the stream of water in the shower, his hair dripping into his eyes and cleaning his face. She wondered if his muscles would bulge like they did when he pulled weeds if he were to press her hard against the tile wall, lift her up, and fuck her.

Pansy blinked again and hastily returned to her flowerbed, trying to focus her attention on a fat yellow and black bumblebee happily hovering above her flowers. It was September, but it suddenly felt as warm as July, and if she was suddenly fantasizing about shower sex with Neville Longbottom she felt it was probably safest to look away from him at the moment.

She and Draco hadn’t had a tumble in the sheets since the... _incident_.

She hadn’t regretted that yet, but now she was. Deeply.

Clearly it kept her under control.

Sleeping with Neville Longbottom. Honestly.

As if she would ever seriously _consider_ —

“Well,” said Neville, abruptly breaking her out of her thoughts, “I do think the colors you picked are pretty. I noticed you have a real eye for matching things. Making them extra beautiful.” He plucked a violet and scooted closer, leaning forward with his arm outstretched.

Pansy froze.

She didn’t move as he tucked it gently behind her ear. His hands were shaking slightly, as they usually were.

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t move. Part of her wanted to slap his arm away and scream at him for daring to come closer to her.

But no. Pansy couldn’t do either of those things.

All she could do was sit there, rigid, feeling her heart race increase and a more aggressive blush begin to crawl across her cheekbones as her eyes caught his. She became aware just how close his face was to hers, how kind and big and fascinating his eyes were.

He gave her another of those sincere smiles.

Abruptly, Pansy scrambled to her feet.

Neville’s face flashed with surprise at her sudden movement, but he only watched as she marched off. Pansy spotted Granger at the far end of all the garden plots and flounced over, her mouth twisted into a sour expression. “Granger!” Pansy barked.

“Pansy,” she greeted, watching her approach with an air of careful resignation.

Pansy folded her arms with a flourish. “Why the _fuck_ have you paired me with Neville _fucking_ Longbottom? I want a new partner. I don’t know what you were thinking when you did this, but I’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what, exactly? Neville doing most of the work?”

Pansy’s sneered. “His annoying rambling, and his personality, and—” Her mouth closed.

_And his eyes, and my unwitting attraction to him, and his kindness that I don’t know how to handle._

Granger just arched an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. “You want to know why?”

“Yes,” Pansy hissed. “And then I want a new partner.”

“The gardening project is almost over. I’m not giving you a new partner. Don’t be ridiculous.” Granger folded her arms, and then a mischievous smirk came over her face. Pansy had never seen Granger wear an expression like that before. She hadn’t known a swot like her was capable. But here she was, acting vaguely... _normal_.

What was even happening in the world?

“I paired you with Neville,” said Granger, “Because he requested it.”

“He—he _what_?” Pansy’s hands clenched into tight, angry balls at her side.

“That’s right.” And then Granger gave Pansy a small, rather smug smile. “If you haven’t noticed, he stares at you quite a lot. I think he might find you rather pretty.”

And without another word Granger stepped past Pansy, on her way to observe another plot, leaving the Slytherin standing there and almost feeling like the other woman had slapped her before another July-like heat spread through her entire body.

* * *

“Is there anything that you would you like to talk about today, Draco?”

Draco stared at the floor for a long time, feeling massively uncomfortable, before he muttered, “Last night Pansy and I officially ended our arrangement.”

“This is an interesting development.” Miranda gave him a small smile. “Would you please tell me what happened? Who was the one to suggest stopping?”

“Me,” said Draco, fidgeting in his chair.

“I see. Why did you want to stop?”

“I realized...” He paused. “I didn’t like how it was making me feel. Both of us feel.”

“Hm.” She was studying him carefully now. “Can you tell me exactly what happened last night?”

* * *

“Remind me why we’re doing this,” said Pansy, shooting Draco a look of not so furtive displeasure.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I can’t very well leave you to go by yourself,” she sniffed.

“It’s just a few drinks,” said Draco vaguely. The truth was, he also wasn’t quite sure why he was going. He and Pansy were probably going to be the only reforming Purebloods there. Still, they had been invited, and he found himself saying yes without pausing to question it.

There were indeed looks of surprise when they showed up. But Granger was beaming and Potter and Ginny Weasley actually gave a friendly wave. And so he slid into the booth with Pansy, feeling marginally more comfortable than he had on the way here. The nausea that had been threatening to overtake him seemed to be receding, at any rate.

“Hey Malfoy,” greeted Ginny Weasley. “Ready to get spanked playing football next week? We’re doing men vs. women, and I’m busy recruiting.”

“In your dreams, she-Weasel,” he drawled, and she tossed her hair and knocked back some of her drink, mouth twitching. Briefly, Draco caught Granger’s eye, sitting to the left of Ginny. She was looking at him with a mixture of pride and softness, and he hastily looked down at his hands.

It was actually very pleasant, the next half hour. Even Pansy thawed out and began talking, though she mostly seemed absorbed in conversation with Longbottom across from her. Draco bantered with Ginny and Harry about sports and talked to Hermione at length about culture and history. He was feeling more and more at ease, especially after his fourth drink. Until–

“Sorry I’m late,” said Ron, sliding into the booth next to Hermione, tucking an arm around her shoulders, and pulling her close to his side. “Hi,” Draco heard him murmur to her, before he kissed her at length, causing Ginny to clear her throat pointedly.

Ron’s blue eyes moved to Draco and Pansy. “Malfoy,” he said, rather coolly. "Parkinson."

“Weasley,” was all Draco was capable of saying. He had the strangest urge to smash something.

Pansy did not seem to think it was even worth a reply. She just rolled her eyes and took a long swig of her drink.

After ten minutes Ron was also talking about sports, and though he wasn’t necessarily speaking much with Draco directly, he wasn’t being nasty or outright ignoring him, either. Draco was well aware how the Gryffindors were being the bigger people; it was only adding to a debt he was beginning to feel he would never repay.

Draco’s eyes drifted down and saw how Weasley laced his fingers with Granger’s, holding her hand on the table, and he suddenly stood up, knocking his knees on the table in his haste to move out of the booth and making everyone jump. “I’m going up to the bar to get a drink,” he said mechanically.

He ordered the drink and edged onto a stool, but he didn’t take the drink back to the table. He didn’t feel ready to return yet. Instead he sat there, sipping it slowly and staring blankly at the wall.

“Draco? Could I join you?”

He jumped out of his reverie to see Granger to his right, looking at him with rather hopeful eyes and gesturing to the stool beside him.

“Of course,” he said, nodding quickly. He wished his voice hadn’t come out so hoarse.

She sat. “Gin and tonic,” she told the bartender, and then she smiled up at him. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” He was drinking something. His mouth should not be so dry. “How are you, Granger?”

“Oh, you know. Busy.” She sighed. “Planning this program is quite the task. Not that I mind,” she said quickly. “I actually quite enjoy it. I’m very pleased with the success, at least. What do you think?”

“I think you’re brilliant,” he told her. He had meant to say the _program_ was brilliant, but the words were already out. She lowered her eyes with a flattered smile, a very delicate blush crawling up her cheeks, and Draco found that he didn’t regret saying it all that much anyway.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said finally. “I think it's nice that we’re all here. Together.”

“Two or three years ago there would have been duels,” said Draco, and she laughed.

“I know. That’s the best part.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Can I ask you something?”

“O–of course.” He was taken aback by her proximity.

“I wanted to know...” He watched, fascinated, as another dull flush spread over her cheekbones. “Well, are you and Pansy...you know. An item?”

He blinked. “Oh. Um–”

“I understand if it’s a private question,” she said quickly, looking suddenly rather horrified with herself. Briefly, Draco considered the possibility that Granger might be the tiniest bit drunk, because he couldn’t imagine her normally asking this. “You can feel free not to answer, of course. I was just wondering because you spend so much time together, and because at school it seemed you were. But she and Neville also seem to be...” She stopped, coloring even more and staring down at the bar.

“We’re not an item,” said Draco, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with her and Longbottom.” He glanced over and saw she was still talking to him, leaning as close as possible.

Interesting.

To his surprise, Granger stayed there for quite a while with him, and they kept ordering drinks. They discussed so many things Draco lost count, but he was struck by how easy it was to talk to her. “Granger,” he slurred after a time, now a little drunk himself, “You’re really cool, you know.”

She started to giggle. She buried her head in her arms and kept going and he joined her until their fit of laughter died down. “If someone had told me at Hogwarts you’d say that to me one day,” she said, wiping tears out of her eyes, “I’d have recommended they go to St. Mungo’s.”

His smile faltered. “Granger,” he said, feeling suddenly very urgent.

She detected his change in tone and looked up, blinking slowly and eyes wide.

“Granger, I’m sorry,” he said, feeling his throat get tight. “I–I know I told you this last summer. At my trial. But I–I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I can say it enough. You have no idea how much I wish I could–” He stopped, closing his eyes. “I was the worst. I hope you can forgive me. One day.”

A hand reached out to cover his and he opened his eyes, his gaze sliding to hers. Her brown eyes had tears in them, but she was giving him that same radiant smile she had been wearing on the day she had told him how happy he had made her with his effort in the program.

Draco couldn’t breathe.

“I already have,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

“Hermione!” It was Weasley again, and Draco glared at him as he came over looking slightly hazy, also clearly a little inebriated. “Are you ready to leave? We can go back to the Burrow.” He stooped to kiss her neck, hands moving to her waist.

“You’ll have to come to my flat, Ron,” said Hermione, leaning away from him a little. She clearly was not one for public displays of affection. “You know that I can’t just leave Crookshanks overnight.”

“Ah, right, that bloody cat,” muttered Ron.

Hermione stiffened, and brief irritation flitted across her features before she could quell it.

Fault lines in the oh so perfect hero and heroine romance?

Draco was somehow both very uncomfortable and also floating on a cloud. He was glad when Pansy’s voice floated in from behind him. “All right,” he heard her say, and he turned to see her stumbling toward him. She was the drunkest of them all. Over her shoulder, Draco caught a glimpse of Longbottom watching them from the booth over the rim of his glass, his eyes slightly narrowed.

Interesting indeed.

Pansy came and draped an arm around Draco’s shoulders. He groaned and put out a hand to hold her up by the shoulder. She was putting a lot of body weight on him. “Stop chatting up Granger about your nerd shit and take me home, Draco. I want to be fucked tonight until I can’t stand.”

There was a very long, awkward silence.

“Merlin, Pans,” Draco muttered finally, between gritted teeth. Why did she have to pick _this_ very moment to want to jump back in the bed with him after the last incident? Pansy had always had a lack of filter, especially drinking, but he found himself wishing he had Silencio’d her before she could speak.

“Oh, so you two are a thing?” Ron pointed between them. Draco chanced a glance at Granger, who was only watching solemnly, though there was a glint in her eye that Draco couldn’t interpret.

Pansy snorted. “Hell no. It’s just sex.” She tugged on Draco’s sleeve and her voice became more high-pitched and insistent. “Come _on_. My pussy won’t fuck itself.”

“Gross,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose.

“What is it, Weasley?” taunted Pansy, eyes glittering. “Don't like the word pussy?”

“Merlin,” hissed Draco again, standing and tucking an arm around her. It was not easy to hold her up, seeing as he was not exactly sober himself. “Sorry,” he mumbled, not daring to look at Weasley and Granger. “Come on, Pans. Let’s go. We have to get to the Leaky and take the Floo, we clearly can’t Apparate.” He was stepping away when he finally chanced a glance up at them. Weasley’s nose was wrinkled in disgust but Granger was mostly expressionless.

“Er–see you next class,” he muttered uncomfortably, and he and Pansy stumbled out.

* * *

As soon as they stumbled through the Floo into his room, Pansy’s hands had flown toward his belt.

But he slapped her hand away. “That was rude,” Draco growled.

“Oh please,” said Pansy scathingly. “Who cares what Weasley and Granger think?”

A pair of interlaced hands. A flash of amber eyes. A kiss on the neck.

He could feel his pulse pounding, how his fists were clenched. Fury crashed over him like waves.

She reached to unbutton his shirt, but Draco pushed her away. “No,” he said firmly, stepping back. She withdrew immediately, staring at him in shock and a little bit of hurt. “You came at me like that to make Longbottom jealous,” continued Draco finally, his voice hard.

She blinked rapidly. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t deny it. You know it’s true.” His eyes flashed. “I don’t want to be used, Pansy. I’m not your toy.”

“Oh please,” she snarled. “What else am I for you when it comes to sex?”

“No more,” he said. “We’re not doing this anymore. It isn’t healthy.”

“Fine by me,” she shot back.

He sighed and looked down at the floor. “Just tell him how you feel, Pansy,” he suggested. “Don’t play games. He might find someone else if you wait, and you’d regret it. I don’t want that for you.” He regarded her seriously. “I love you as my friend, Pansy. Just...let yourself be fucking happy. Merlin.”

She gaped at him, but he couldn’t stand the emptiness in his chest another minute.

Miranda had been right. Casual sex had covered it for a time, but it seemed it could no longer.

He turned quickly and headed to the corridor without looking back at her, wishing that he hadn’t gone out for those drinks, after all.

* * *

“I am proud,” Miranda said after a long pause, “That you have recognized and eliminated something that you saw as an unhealthy dynamic for you, Draco. That is a huge step forward.”

Draco supposed she was right.

But now that he was no longer numbing it, all he felt was an aching loneliness.


	5. Mid September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing ahead and would like to post more frequently to finish this story :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Mid September, 1999.**

Pansy had waited specifically for this time of year to come to Diagon Alley for some retail therapy.

The rush of Hogwarts students and their parents coming to buy school supplies was long over. No more preteens and teenagers crowding the tiny little shops and the alleyways, no more long lines, and, best of all, no reminders of a childhood that now gave Pansy painful and conflicting feelings.

Coming here too close to August would have given her a stabbing sensation of longing and nostalgia mixed with a bitter sort of frustrated anger.

She had learned that the hard way last year.

Pansy remembered her excitement about going to Hogwarts when she was eleven. She remembered very well what her hopes and expectations had been.

That she would be popular. The top of the food chain. She and Draco would date and other girls would be envious. And then they would eventually marry and assume their rightful status at the top of the Wizarding World hierarchy: powerful, wealthy, pure.

How very comically wrong she was. How very differently things had turned out.

Almost exactly the opposite, really, because here she was avoiding crowds and attention and knowing full well that the attention she got wouldn’t be the sort of attention she wanted.

“Pansy?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that voice immediately, before turning from the bookshelf she had been perusing in Flourish & Blotts. It was Neville, hovering just behind her in the aisle. She briefly considered sprinting away. Especially because she was standing in the erotic literature section.

Neville, as always, was looking at her with that distinct kindness in his eyes.

Those _bloody_ eyes.

Pansy coughed awkwardly—something she generally refrained from doing, and she was positively livid that she was somehow starting now—and tried to discreetly block the shelf she had just been browsing. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here, Longbottom?”

“Picking up some books for some of my projects,” he said, vaguely lifting the books in his arms. He was holding four, to be precise, all about Herbology. His arms, Pansy’s brain very unhelpfully noted, were showing due to his short sleeve shirt, the muscles popping out. “Thought I saw you come in.”

“Fascinating,” she said, desperately wanting to get away before he could ask what kind of books she was after or take a good hard look at where he was standing. “Well, if you’ll excuse—”

“Neville!” A voice, feminine and even sharper than Pansy’s, sounded down the aisle.

Pansy hadn’t thought it would get any worse than meeting Neville here. But apparently it did, because his grandmother was now strolling down the aisle.

Augusta Longbottom was startlingly tall, rendered even more so by the way she held herself and her chin up proudly. And that gigantic hat that she was wearing on her head—very distasteful, thought Pansy, fighting the urge to outwardly wrinkle her nose—also exaggerated her height.

Like a hawk, the woman swooped over, her severe gaze falling onto Pansy.

Though she wanted to shrink away from the clear disdain on the other woman’s face, Pansy too raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. Habit. Just like she had been taught. That was all Pansy had ever done. All she had ever been good for. Doing what she’d been told.

Something inside of her shriveled and withered, but she hoped her face remained neutral.

“Ah,” said Augusta Longbottom. “I know this one. Parkinson, is it?”

“Yes,” said Pansy, lips pursing. She did not like the way _Parkinson_ had sounded on her lips.

“Well,” said Augusta, sniffing, “Come on now, Neville. You may be doing that program, but no need to associate with those that would sell out Harry Potter.” She gave Pansy a blazing sort of look. “That would have ended the war, girl. We would have lost. I hope it haunts you.”

“Gran,” said Neville. His voice was uncharacteristically rough. “Stop. Pansy was frightened.”

“Many of us were frightened, Neville,” said Augusta haughtily. “Some of us just channel our fear into better avenues than others, don’t we? You’re lucky you’re not in Azkaban, Miss Parkinson.”

Pansy wasn’t quite sure what was happening to her. Her chest cavity felt like it was collapsing. Normally in a situation like this she would have gotten angry or snooty and made some sort of biting comment. Normally in a situation like this she wouldn’t give two fucks what Augusta Longbottom thought of her.

Whatever it was, for the first time Pansy didn’t feel she had fight in her.

A dull heat was creeping into her neck, and she averted her eyes. “I’ll be going,” she said stiffly.

Augusta Longbottom’s lofty voice directed at her grandson drifted after her when Pansy marched off.

“—and what tarty, air-headed literature, honestly—”

Pansy just picked up the pace of her footsteps.

What was _wrong_ with her?

Honestly, she should have given that wretched woman a piece of her mind.

But all she was doing or seemed even capable of doing was focusing on putting one foot in front of another and quelling the tight, restricted feeling that was creeping into her chest and throat.

The bell clanged as she exited into the shopping street, hating the burn of tears in the corner of her eyes. She hated it even more when she heard the bell sound again after she had gone only a few paces and Neville’s voice again, calling after her.

“Pansy! Hey Pansy, wait!”

Pansy did not wait. In fact, she started hurrying away faster, nearly twisting an ankle when one of her heels snagged in the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley and she stumbled.

A large, masculine hand wrapped fully around her wrist to stop her from falling.

_Honestly, this stupid fucking street, you’d think they’d keep it up better,_ she raged silently in her mind, but then she looked up and her mind became curiously blank. Neville Longbottom was hovering very close, inches from her face, looking down at her with those big eyes full of concern.

“Are you all right?” His eyes were flicking about her face.

“Of course I am.” She wrenched her wrist away and smoothed her dress with a scowl before she turned on her heel and began to walk again.

“Hey! Hold on!” called Neville, hurrying to fall into step beside her.

“There’s no need to associate with me, Longbottom,” she said sharply. “Go away.”

“Don’t listen to my Gran,” he said, sounding desperate. “You’re better now, Pansy.”

“Oh, why thank you,” she said. She shot him a furious glare.

Neville rushed to stand in front of her and block her path from walking. “That’s not what I—I just meant that you believed what you grew up in, didn’t you? It was all about environment and circumstance, wasn’t it? It’s like that with everyone. Don’t blame yourself. And now—”

“ _Now_ I would very much like you to leave me alone,” said Pansy savagely, cutting him off and attempting to step around him. To her surprise, he blocked her path.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and she paused, blinking rapidly at his boldness. “I like talking to you, Pansy, and I think you like talking to me. Do you want to go and get some drinks?”

It took time for her to compose herself. She was glad she had controlled herself from letting her mouth fall agape, but she definitely just stared, aghast, for several long moments.

Neville hastened to say, “Not like—I’m not trying to interfere with you and Malfoy.” For a moment, his mouth twisted. It was so brief that Pansy thought that maybe she had imagined it. “I just thought we could talk, you know. Hang out. Friends.” He gave her a small, hopeful smile.

Whatever resolve she had been building up to viciously reject his offer crumbled at that smile.

What was _wrong_ with her?

Still, some nagging voice in her was wondering if this was some sort of trick.

Pansy folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Why?” she asked.

Neville sighed. “Why not? Are you against the idea of making a new friend, Pansy?”

“I—suppose not,” she said, watching him cautiously and wondering if she had gone mad. If this was really happening. “But it’s midday,” she suddenly protested. “Do you usually day drink, Longbottom? Have a secret alcoholism problem or something, do you?”

Neville flashed her an uncharacteristically mischievous grin. It was roguish and unfairly sexy. “No. Are you telling me you never day drink?”

“Fair enough,” said Pansy. “Then lead the way. But only if you’re buying.”

Neville just chuckled, hooking an arm with hers and guiding her away.

* * *

“Ah, fuck,” Draco muttered, halting in his tracks in the corridor of the community center. “I forgot my book on the desk. Be right back.”

“It’s fine,” said Pansy, her eyes far away. “I have places I have to be. See you later, Draco.”

Draco watched her quickly leave, rather confused as to why she couldn’t wait at least five minutes so they could walk to an Apparation spot together as usual. But Pansy had been strangely distant the past week or so. She always had ‘plans.’

Draco turned on his heel and hurried back down the corridor. He’d probably die if anyone found his note sheet that was tucked inside, with the extensive list of books he planned to read out of class.

The light was still on, but Draco didn’t hear any voices that suggested any students were still lingering. Good. He didn’t really want to socialize with any of the others unless he had to.

But then he heard a strange noise coming from inside the room. It made his heart rate increase uncomfortably and it only got worse when he peeked around the door frame and caught a glimpse of Granger at the front of the room.

She seemed to be shuffling with her bag, tucking books and papers inside and cleaning up to leave, but her movements were slow and choppy.

Her unruly hair was hiding her face, so it was only when he heard the noise again—a choked little sniffle—that he realized that she was crying.

Draco began stepping into the room automatically, throat dry. “Granger? Hermione?”

She gave a little gasp and started in surprise, looking wildly at the door. Her eyes were red and puffy and she looked miserable. “Oh,” she said hoarsely. “Draco. Hello.” She began swiping her eyes furiously, still sniffing. “I’m—I’m sorry, I was just packing up...did you need something?”

“I just forgot my book.” He pointed at his desk, where the book still sat. He saw her eyes drift over to it, and she looked vaguely surprised. So was Draco. It wasn’t like her not to notice something was still sitting on a student’s desk as she packed up to leave. She must be really out of it.

He tried to think back and remember if he had detected something off while she had been teaching the class that evening but she had seemed normal. Maybe had looked a bit more tired than usual. “Is everything okay?” he asked, still taking cautious steps forward.

Um—well. It—it will be.” Her voice trembled a little.

He stopped right in front of her. She was furiously avoiding his eyes and had returned to shoving books back into her back. Draco noted she was doing it with no particular method. Usually she stacked them a certain way. Largest to smallest. Very organized.

“Granger,” said Draco, reaching out to tentatively touch her shoulder. “What happened?”

“Oh,” she answered, her voice getting a little shriller, “Ron and I broke up yesterday. It’s nothing. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about such things.”

On the contrary, Draco very much wanted to hear about such things, but he had a feeling that would be strange to say, and he couldn’t speak for a moment anyway. On the one hand, his insides were squirming and his chest expanding with something suspiciously like delight. On the other, she looked so shattered when she cried.

He resisted the urge to reach out and hug her, uncertain how that would be received.

“Wanker,” was all he said instead. She glanced up, eyes widening, and he realized too late that his voice sounded much more gruff and furious than he had intended.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “It was amicable. We’d been—sort of falling apart for months. He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just fresh, is all. And it’s a bit hard, because I can’t talk much to Harry or Ginny about it, seeing as they’re both close with Ron too and I don’t want to put them in a strange position, or anything, and—and often we all did things together, you know, so it’s just all rather messy and awkward at the beginning, and—” She stopped, letting out a shuddering sigh, before giving him a weak smile. “Sorry. It doesn’t matter. Well. Anyway.” She hiked her bag over her shoulder, back to avoiding his eyes and staring down at the desk with colored cheeks.

The urge to smash her to his chest and wrap his arms around her was much more powerful this time, but Draco still successfully managed to quell it.

“I don’t mind hearing about it,” he offered, shuffling his feet. “That’s okay.”

Hermione glanced up again. This time her smile was softer and more genuine. “Thanks. Well, I was just leaving and going to turn off the lights and everything, so...”

“Right,” said Draco, having forgotten the book entirely. He hurried over and plucked it from the desk, but in his haste his sheet of notes slipped out and fluttered to the ground. Quickly, he stooped to pick it up, but Hermione had seen, and she sounded curious when she spoke.

“What’s that? You’ve turned in all your homework, I thought.”

“Oh, that was just—” He shuffled his feet again, feeling heat sprawl across his cheeks. When he chanced a glance at her, she was watching him with fascination. Because it was so much better than her crying and it seemed to make her momentarily forget her misery about Weasley, he said, “It’s just a reading list. That I made. Or well—that I’m still making.”

Hermione tilted her head. “You mean outside of the regular reading list?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes drifted to the paper in his hand, a light of passion entering her eyes. “Do you mind if I see it? Maybe I’ll find something I haven’t read yet and that I could try.”

Draco blinked. “Oh. Er—you won’t. They’re all books that you’ve, um, mentioned in class.”

Hermione’s lips parted, eyes going wider. “You keep a list of books I’ve mentioned and read them?”

“Yeah.” Draco fidgeted with the book in his hands.

The look on her face that came next, however, was worth all of his mortification. Her eyes became wide and touched, and she was smiling at him almost like she’d never seen him before. “No one’s ever been that interested in what I’ve read,” she told him. “Do you…like them?”

Draco nodded, feeling more confident now about this interaction, and gave her a vaguely teasing smirk. “That’s why I keep making the list, Granger.”

“That’s...I can’t really believe it,” she admitted. But she was beaming radiantly.

Draco felt something warm unfurl in his chest. After conversing with him, she was feeling better. He had helped cheer her up. He just smiled and gestured toward the door, and she nodded, still looking rather stunned, and followed him, flicking off the lights as they exited.

“So,” said Draco, as they strolled down the corridor, “What will you do now?”

“Go home, cuddle with Crookshanks, and read something silly and mindless, probably,” she sighed.

“Well,” he said, “The Malfoys have a large library, Granger. If you ever wanted more books to read…”

“That’s very kind,” she said, but something was wrong with her voice. It was too high. He glanced down at her as they walked, and saw she was looking vaguely panicked, her limbs stiff.

_Idiot_ , he chastised himself. _You stupid, fucking, useless idiot._ _Of course she doesn’t want to come to your fucking house. Not with your family. Not after what happened to her there. You made her uncomfortable._ _Made her remember something terrible._ _You’re lucky she even walks next to you._

“I can bring you books,” he said quickly, trying to remedy his mistake. “You know, maybe we could do an exchange. Every couple weeks we can do a trade off.”

Draco peeked down again, and his chest loosened upon seeing that she looked normal again. She was even starting to slowly smile, the familiar light entering her eyes that she got when talking in class. “Like a recommendation trade off?”

“Yes,” said Draco, with that familiar parched feeling in his throat returning, “Exactly.”


	6. Late September

**Late September, 1999.**

“Well,” said Miranda at Pansy’s weekly therapy session, “Why don’t we start with the usual, Pansy. How was your week? Is there anything of consequence that happened? Anything weighing on you that you’d like to talk about or address this session?”

Pansy stared aggressively at the floor. “No,” she lied.

“Pansy,” said Miranda knowingly, “I have the strangest feeling you aren’t being entirely honest about that. Is there a reason you feel you have to lie about your activities this last week?”

Pansy was torn between the option to snap at her and just let it all come spilling out. The desire to mentally fuck with her therapist had gone down drastically since she had first started coming to her. Likely because Pansy had come to the realization that nothing would faze this woman; which, Pansy was beginning to grudgingly admit to herself, made her an excellent therapist.

Still, Pansy sometimes morbidly wondered if she could somehow irritate her.

She was about fifty-fifty with wanting to try, at this point.

But the need to talk about it with _someone_ won over after several moments of fidgeting in her seat.

“I had a—sexual experience last night,” said Pansy finally. _And this morning_ , she added silently.

Miranda’s face didn’t react at all. She merely scribbled something brief down on her clipboard. Pansy wondered what it was. What kind of shit would you write about that? ‘ _She got laid?’_

“Have you and Draco resumed your no strings attached sexual relationship?”

“No,” muttered Pansy, frowning. Miranda didn’t say anything. She just waited. The long silence was so agonizing that Pansy finally scowled heavily and looked up, throwing the woman one of her best glowers. “It was Longbottom,” she said, bitterness lacing her voice. “Happy?”

“I don’t have feelings on it one way or the other,” said Miranda. “I am, however, interested in how _you_ feel about it, Pansy. Your face doesn’t indicate that you are happy.” Miranda tilted her head. “Did it not go well? Was there something that upset you?”

“The actual…acts went well,” said Pansy. _More than well. Too well. Electrifying. Toe-curling. Quite possibly so well that I will never want another penis in my life._

“Is that not positive?” asked Miranda. “Was there something that didn’t go well?”

“This morning,” said Pansy. “This morning didn’t go all that well.”

 _After the fun part_ , she amended in her head.

* * *

Pansy had woken that morning to a tongue teasing her clit.

It had taken her a few seconds to wake up and register it, but once she had, she had immediately reached down and grasped hair and pulled, arching her back further into it with a low moan.

Hazily, she knew it was Neville.

Last night, he had invited her over. They had been spending a lot of time together that week, ever since that first time they had gotten drinks in Diagon Alley. And she had shown up at his flat—filled with an unnatural amount of plants—and he had cooked her dinner and shown her everything he was growing and the research he was working on for St. Mungo’s on plants with healing properties; and though she only had one glass of wine that night, Pansy had felt thoroughly intoxicated.

After dinner they moved to the couch, and the very slight buzz from her wine gave her the tenacity to sit close enough to him that her knee was touching his.

Pansy had been watching him carefully all night. For the last week, really. It hadn’t been necessary to watch closely to see that Granger had been right. Longbottom was attracted to her. Sometimes, when they had been out for a drink, she had turned to see that he had already been staring. There was a soft sort of light in his eyes when he looked at her. And, she was very pleased to note, whenever she shed an outer layer to display what she was wearing underneath—which, throughout the week, had become dresses that were steadily more and more revealing—his eyes got darker, and they’d drag over for her a moment before he’d remember himself and look away.

The smart thing to do would be to stay away.

It would be one thing if she just wanted to fuck him. And Pansy most certainly did want to fuck him. There was no use denying that anymore. Her sexual fantasies lately had all revolved around Neville Longbottom, so it seemed she was going to have to just get him out of her system.

But the other problem was that, over the past week, Pansy had realized that she genuinely liked being around him. Somewhere along the way, she had begun to enjoy when he talked about his plant projects. Tonight, when he had showed them to her, she felt something like happiness. Not because she necessarily loved plants. No—it was for _his_ behalf.

Well. That was clearly unacceptable.

She just had to get him out of her system, and she intended to.

“Longbottom,” she had said in a low voice, a tone bordering on seduction as she turned toward him and leaned forward just a little so that he was sure to get a nice view of her cleavage. She fought a triumphant smirk when she saw his eyes flit down to her chest, his neck bob as he swallowed hard, and then how his gaze flew back up to hers. “I’m not seeing Draco.”

Neville’s eyes had shot up, but then he had cleared his throat and casually taken a sip of his own wine before saying, “Oh?”

He was terrible at appearing nonchalant. It was endearing.

“Yes,” said Pansy demurely. “It was only casual, but that’s over.”

The way he looked at her then—the hunger that had entered his eyes—it made her shiver.

It was going to happen. Now she was positive. And already very aroused.

What would Longbottom be like? It was hard seeing him be the type of man that enjoyed a rougher variety of sex, though seeing him lose control like that would be _undeniably_ sexy. He seemed to be more the type that would be—fuck if she knew—gentle, and loving, or whatever.

Though then again, it was always the quiet ones.

Either way, she intended to find out.

Purposefully, she let her gaze inch over him. Pansy lingered especially long on his chest and arms, and when her gaze met his again, his eyes had gotten even darker.

“Pansy,” he said, the deepest she had ever heard his voice, and her heart began fluttering like mad. “Tell me I’m not imagining that you want this, too.”

Pansy reached out and ran one finger over his chest with a coy smile. “Perceptive, Longbottom,” she said, before she bunched his shirt in her fist, yanked him to her, and kissed him fiercely.

If the pace of just these first kisses were any indication, Neville Longbottom might be more wild than she thought. And that thought gave her a thrill, made her heartbeat increase to a wild canter in her chest and an ache of need build between her thighs. Pansy pulled his hair in fistfuls and his hands roamed over her shoulders and her hips, and he deepened the kiss to something even more wild, and fast, and needy, and he pushed her back on the couch.

Neville Longbottom, she discovered roughly fifteen minutes later, was unnaturally gifted, anatomically speaking. As things progressed, after they had made their way to the bed and she was undressing him, pulling down his boxers so that he sprang out, she spent a long moment just staring. So long, in fact, that Neville shuffled his feet in apparent discomfort.

Pansy looked up at him. “Holy shit,” was all she said.

His face was flushed, and he was watching her with glazed eyes.

His hair was all tousled from Pansy running her hands through it over and over, or using it to pull at him so she could crush her body against his while she kissed him.

Pansy thought he looked unfairly, sinfully good.

“Is something—wrong?” he asked uncertainly.

“Wrong? This is...you’re fucking _gigantic_ ,” said Pansy, unable to keep the awe out of her voice.

He sounded genuinely surprised. “Am I?”

Pansy just stared. “What, you’re telling me you have a massive dick and just...have _no_ _idea_?”

His expression morphed into something that was a little smug. “I suppose not. Some women have said so, but I thought that was just. You know. Something they were saying to be nice.”

Pansy choked on a laugh. “Um, no. No, Longbottom, your cock is legitimately the biggest I’ve _ever_ seen. And rest assured I’m not lying, because I don’t give two shits about your ego.”

He had just grinned, and then used his spectacular gift to take her in three different ways and two different locations. Twice on the bed and once, just as Pansy had fantasized about, in the shower. And though every time had been good— _mind blowing_ in fact—that one in the shower had been her favorite. The hair hanging in his eyes. How he would dip his head to her neck and suckle on sensitive spots. The veins in his arms as he held her against the wall. The muscles she had felt rippling when she grasped his shoulders for leverage, digging her nails in.

And the angle—it had made her eyes actually roll back in her head.

She had screamed, actually _screamed_ , when she came that time.

Neville had followed her with a deep groan, hips jerking and mumbling praise as he came into her. “ _Fuck_ — fucking — Pansy, you’re perfect, so perfect — Pansy, _Merlin_ —”

He had carried her to bed after the shower and they had fallen asleep there, exhausted.

And apparently, Neville wasn’t done with her yet.

He was currently using the broad flat of his tongue to lick at her and she was going to lose her mind. When he brought his thumb to rub little circles on her clit, pleasure shot through every cell of her body and she tensed.

“ _Shit_ ,” she panted, unashamedly thrusting her hips toward his mouth.

She cried out when she came, bucking and thrashing on the bed, and when it was over, she lay there limp for a long moment.

Neville crawled up beside her and nuzzled into her neck. “Been wanting to do that for ages,” he said huskily, and Pansy made an incoherent little noise of pleasure before opening her eyes a crack to look at him. He was now grinning down at her, hair hanging over his forehead just like she liked.

“You have?” she asked breathlessly.

“Uh huh.” He appeared triumphant.

It was quiet for a long time as Pansy’s breathing subsided to something that resembled normalcy.

“So,” he said, sounding more cautious now. “What—er—was this?”

“Necessary?” said Pansy, shifting to stand and start putting her clothes on. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Neville, “I mean, are we—what are we?” There was a long silence where Pansy felt his eyes burning into her back and she felt something strangely like panic rising up in her. But before she could stutter out any sort of coherent answer because she wasn’t entirely certain herself—this felt fundamentally different from what she and Draco had done, for some reason—Neville was speaking again. “Obviously we can keep it quiet,” said Neville quickly. “Secret.”

Pansy felt that same crumpling sensation in her chest she had on that day in Diagon Alley.

She yanked her shirt up and began putting it on.

As if she wanted to be seen with _him_ anyway.

“I don’t want to continue this,” she said, a clear sneer in her voice. “You’re decently satisfactory, Longbottom, and thank you for the orgasms, but that’s where I’d like to keep things. Thanks.”

Pansy didn’t dare look at him, but it sounded as though he had been hit in the head with a Bludger. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Er—okay then. Right. Sounds—fine.”

Pansy stood and slipped on her knickers and trousers from the evening before, stalked out to the entryway, and picked up her purse. She heard him scrambling to get up from the bed, clearly just now coming to his senses that she was actually leaving.

“Pansy,” he began, “You were—”

But what she was, she never heard. Pansy just slipped out the front door, closing it firmly behind her.

* * *

“Tell me why you left so abruptly, Pansy,” said Miranda.

“Isn’t it obvious? I want to keep it casual.”

“You kept it casual with Draco, but saw him rather consistently. What’s different about Neville? Why did you shut out any possible future interactions with him?”

“I can’t shut out possible future interactions with him,” said Pansy, and the thought of seeing him at their program that evening made her heart race uncomfortably. Almost painfully. “I’ll just have to continue making it clear that I don’t want to talk to him much.”

“Interesting,” said Miranda. “Before you slept with Neville, you spent time with him in the week.”

“Yes,” said Pansy stoutly. “Well I was _hoping_ to sleep with him, wasn’t I?”

“Oh? How long were you hoping for that outcome?”

Pansy examined her fingernails to avoid seeing Miranda’s face. “I don’t know,” she said, feigning disinterest. “I noticed he was attractive throughout the program. Even if he was annoying.”

“Pansy,” said Miranda gently, “Are you being dishonest again? It won’t serve your therapy to be dishonest with me. Or yourself. I’d like to focus on something you told me.” She checked the clipboard that she had been writing on during Pansy’s monologue about her week. “You mentioned that Neville said you could keep things a secret. It was at this point that you left so abruptly and told him it was a one-time situation. Does it bother you that he said that, Pansy? Is that why you assessed the morning as going badly?”

“No,” said Pansy, quickly. Too quickly. She sneered. “I don’t want to be seen with him in public, so why would I care? I told you. He's a good lay, so it's unfortunate, but since Longbottom is a mushy Gryffindor, I don’t trust him to keep it casual. So I’m stopping it now. Simple as that.”

“Hmm,” said Miranda, frowning as she wrote something down. When she glanced up at Pansy again, adjusting her glasses, the look on her face was sad and calculating.

“Can I go a few minutes early today?” said Pansy brusquely.

Miranda contemplated her for a long time. “Sure, Pansy. But I’d like to revisit this topic again soon.”

The thought of that was almost enough for Pansy to consider skiving off the rest of her therapy entirely, though of course that would only mean she would have to start the entire thing over.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to rage.

Instead she stood, primly dusted herself off, and left the office, fully planning on going to buy the most expensive dress that she could find.

And maybe a new pair of heels.


	7. Early October

“You seem angry today, Draco.”

“I am.” His voice was tight and laced with rage. His hands were shaking on the arms of the chair.

“It’s ten in the morning. I have to assume that something happened before you came here and this isn’t something that has been stewing since last night or since we last saw each other?” Miranda the therapist adjusted her glasses as she stared at him.

“Correct,” he said stiffly.

“Care to share it with me?”

* * *

In retrospect, the first thing that had set Draco off was that his father was no longer waiting until lunch time to pour multiple shots of rum into his tea, even though he still reeked of alcohol from the night before. Draco could smell it all the way across their excessively large and ornate table.

Draco wrinkled his nose as his father did it, hoping he was radiating disdain.

He noted that his mother glanced sideways as his father poured as well, and her hand did a little twitch as she reached for her butter knife.

But she didn’t say anything, and neither did Draco.

“So,” drawled Lucius Malfoy, his eyes flicking to his son, “Therapy today again?”

“That’s right.” Draco looked down to butter his toast.

“Bloody Ministry,” said his father. “Forcing this program on us. Tyrants.”

This was something Lucius said daily, so Draco ignored it, though the familiar flame of anger was beginning to build in his chest. He just took a bite of his toast and reached for his orange juice, still not looking at his father. He feared that would make the anger worse.

“At least the therapist isn’t a Mudblood,” said Lucius, already slurring slightly. “Not like everyone’s favorite Mudblood, Granger. Pity she wasn’t eliminated when she could have been. I’ve heard of all the things she’s trying to force through at the Ministry due to her closeness with that blood traitor Shacklebolt.” Lucius’ voice had become very dark indeed.

Draco’s knife fell to his plate with a clatter, and he looked up, eyes flashing. “Be quiet, father.”

Lucius blinked at the rage in his son’s voice, and his mother threw Draco a warning look, but he ignored her. His father pursed his lips. “Careful, Draco. Don’t let the Ministry guilt you into becoming a blood traitor as well. We all know of your softness during the war, but we should continue being proud and str—”

“ _SOFTNESS?!_ ”

Draco was shaking violently, and he hadn’t even realized he had sprang to his feet until he heard his mother’s little gasp of horror. “Draco,” she said, “Do calm down.”

Draco did not tear his glare away from his father, pointing an accusing finger at him. “ _YOU_ GOT US INTO THIS ENTIRE MESS! AND YOU—YOU—” he sputtered a moment, to angry to speak, or think, but then he yanked his sleeve up and brandished his arm at his father. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE RIGHT, AND YOU WERE WRONG! _I_ WAS WRONG, AND I COULD HAVE BEEN—” He stopped, choking on the words. He’d never lost control like this. Not ever. He prided himself on his calm, cool head.

His father’s eyes were glinting.

“Draco,” said his mother, sharper this time.

But Draco ignored her once again, instead opting to turn on his heel and storm out.

* * *

When Draco had finished telling about his morning, Miranda watched him for a long moment and then took her clipboard, ruffling through pages with a thoughtful frown. She seemed to see something confirmatory, because she gave a brief nod and looked up again.

“Draco,” she said, “Tell me about Hermione Granger.”

Draco nearly choked. “I—Granger?”

She appeared rather amused. “Yes,” she said. “Hermione Granger. What’s your relationship like? How do you feel about her?”

“That’s not really relevant,” said Draco, clasping his hands tightly in his lap.

“Oh? But I actually think it might be. Have you noticed that your emotions tend to run extremely high whenever Miss Granger is involved, Draco?”

“My…emotions?” His brain was short-circuiting. Granger’s face appeared in his consciousness and he shuffled his feet, looking anywhere but at his therapist and feeling vaguely panicked.

“Yes. Before you and Pansy had a fight about your momentary ability to have intercourse with her, you had spoken with Miss Granger just beforehand. And her boyfriend, if I’m remembering correctly. On the night that you ended your arrangement with Pansy, I also recall you mentioning having a rather extensive interaction with Miss Granger before leaving with Pansy.”

“Weasley isn’t her boyfriend anymore,” was what, to his horror, Draco found himself replying. The worst part was that he was unable to keep the triumphant edge out of his voice, so he hastened to say, “She—er. Told me that. I went back for my book one evening after class and she was crying.”

“I see,” said Miranda. “How did that make you feel?”

Draco stared at the floor, face burning. “Happy. And sad. And angry.”

“Can you explain those emotions? Dig a little deeper?”

“I was sad for her. I was angry with the Weasel.” Merlin, he hated this. He _hated_ this. It was like she was hovering over his mouth and yanking out his teeth with her bare hands, one by one.

“And the happiness?” She sounded very knowing.

He hated that, too.

“I suppose,” said Draco very gruffly, glaring up at her, “I was glad they broke up.”

“Would you say that you would feel better if she was dating someone you liked better or were friends with? Would that make you happy?”

“I don’t like anyone.” He folded his arms with a scowl.

“You’re not answering my question. It’s a hypothetical.”

Draco let out a growl of frustration, his voice rising. “ _No_. Not—not happy. Not for me. If she were happy then I guess I’d—I’d be fine.” The thought of Hermione Granger on someone else’s arm made him suddenly feel numb. But he was quite certain that Miranda the therapist knew that too, and that she understood the general sentiment behind his words, because her voice was the kindest that Draco had ever heard it when she spoke after a long pause.

“Have you considered telling her how you feel?”

Draco scowled again. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Because she’s Hermione _fucking_ Granger.” His glower only got darker. “I’m lucky she even wants to do book exchanges and talk with me at all.”

“Remember that your negative self-talk and thoughts about yourself are not necessarily what others believe, Draco. Don’t get into the business of assuming you know other’s thoughts. Not only is it often incorrect, but it is debilitating for social interactions and your self-esteem.”

Draco just pursed his lips and threw her an extremely dirty look.

Miranda was flipping through her clipboard, completely unbothered by his less than friendly attitude. “When did this book exchange start? I don’t think you’ve mentioned this.”

“Not long. Maybe two weeks ago. That evening I went back for my book.”

“I see.” She looked thoughtful. “I would encourage you to take more risks and be more transparent about your feelings, Draco. In all matters. Hiding them away can really hinder connection with others and make you miss opportunities for a full life.”

“I’m _not_ telling her,” Draco snapped, rolling his eyes. “They just broke up.”

“That is a very thoughtful and mature reason,” said Miranda, nodding. “Though I still think that there is a line between waiting out of respect for the end of their relationship and her emotional state, and waiting too long as an avoidance strategy. You should be careful not to range into the second scenario. For now, you should say it to me. Tell me how you feel about Hermione Granger.”

Draco moved his eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience before squeezing his eyes shut. “I like her. I fancy her, all right?”

He refused to look back at Miranda, but from the tone of her voice, he could tell that she was smiling. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “That can be what you say to her. When you’re ready. But Draco? Don’t wait too long out of fear. Remember, your simultaneous need for and fear of intimacy—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting her off. “I know.”

* * *

Draco had bought himself a flat in London, unable to take living at the Manor full time.

His mother hadn’t been happy, but after just three days of being away from his childhood home and from his father and the conflicting, bitter confusion of his feelings toward it all, a tightness in Draco’s chest had loosened. He hadn’t even known it had been there.

Just at the moment, however, he was feeling jittery.

An owl had arrived that morning from none other than Granger, asking if they could meet that evening to exchange their first set of books.

The sense of elation that had filled him upon seeing that letter was almost indescribable, and he read it at least four times before sending back an answer. After a few exchanges it was decided she would be coming to his flat that evening around eight o’clock. Draco cleaned almost obsessively to pass the time. The book he had picked for her was already carefully sitting on the living room table (had been ready for ages, actually, he had put _far_ too much thought into which one to give her). He made tea. He attempted to concentrate on reading something, and it was only a partial success.

The tentative knock came on his door ten minutes after eight, and he opened the front door to Granger, delightfully windswept and with slightly rosy cheeks from the brisk autumn air and with her teaching bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hello,” she said warmly, a little breathlessly, her brown eyes darting over his shoulder a moment and into the flat beyond with clear interest.

“Granger,” he greeted, stepping back to let her in.

Once inside, she began kicking off her shoes and unraveling her scarf. “Is this place yours?” she asked, looking around with great curiosity.

“Yes,” said Draco, taking the scarf to hang it and trying to ignore that when his fingers brushed hers he felt a rushing sensation of tingles in his whole arm. When she ran her fingers through her curls in an attempt to tame her hair, he wished they were his. “Er—it’s new. Since last week.”

She stared. “You just…bought a flat in London last week?”

Draco began leading her through to the kitchen. “Yeah. My father and I had a bit of a...disagreement.” His mouth twisted, and he jabbed his wand a little sharper than necessary to set some water boiling on the stove.

“Oh.” Granger’s voice became gentle, so Draco thought it best not to look at her. Instead he swept over to start searching through the cupboards for tea without magic. “Is everything alright?”

“He’s just—” Draco swallowed the furious insults that he wished he would have said to his father last week before wrenching the cupboard open and peering inside. “Refusing to adjust.” A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him. “Granger,” he said, turning around and starting a little when she was closer to him than he was expecting, gazing up at him calmly. “You’re not teaching this program next year, are you? When his generation does it?”

Granger frowned. “I was planning on it. Why?”

“They’re going to be awful to you,” Draco said flatly. “You shouldn’t.”

She smiled a little. “I know I can handle their sneering, and if they do more, they’ll be written up. It will be okay, Malfoy. To be honest, that’s why we did the younger generation first. The Ministry thought that would be easier, and that they might respond better to the classes. And you have.” Her smile got wider, though it was a little sad. “I don’t expect to change many minds of the actual entrenched Death Eaters. It would be lovely, but…” She shrugged. “I’ll certainly be realistic about it.”

“What if they—I don’t know—try and hurt you?” Draco was not quite sure why he felt so panicked about the prospect of Granger in front of a room of people like his father. She could certainly hold her own and defend herself. She was legitimately terrifying sometimes.

Perhaps he was more afraid of what these people would say to her. The insults. He felt, in a way, responsible for what they would say.

Granger reached out and touched his arm, eyes softer again. “I won’t be alone for teaching that program. And their wands will be confiscated. It really will be okay.”

The tea whistled, and it took a few moments for Draco to get everything prepared. “So,” she said, when they were seated with their piping hot mugs of tea in front of them on the table, “I brought you books.” Granger opened her bag with a glimmer of excitement in her eyes and began pulling out book after book, until a stack of five was piled between them.

She faltered, however, at seeing Draco’s dumbfounded expression.

“Is it too much?” she asked, flushing.

“No!” Draco rushed to assure her. “It’s only…well, I only have one for you.”

“That’s okay,” she said, beaming again. “It’s just that actually—um—well, I’m actually leaving for a little while and wanted you to have more to read while I was gone.”

Draco blinked. “Leaving?”

Granger looked rather sheepish. “Well yes. It’s rather last minute, and I do feel bad about that. It was just decided yesterday and I’m actually leaving tomorrow. The Ministry said they’ll get a substitute for while I’m gone. I have all the plans prepared already for the replacement.”

“How long?” Draco did not want to sound desperate, but she gave him a curious look and he wondered if a bit of it had leaked into his voice.

“A month. I wanted a bit of a—a getaway, you know. Thought it would be nice.” She gave him a small smile but her voice wavered a little, and Draco had a feeling he knew what this was about.

He himself had stopped reading the Daily Prophet the past week, for in all three of the issues there had been articles speculating about Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley’s relationship demise. He had even seen Pansy with a Witch Weekly where that was the headline story.

“Well,” said Draco, clearing his throat, “You deserve a break, Granger. That’s good.”

She brightened up a little. “To be honest, it won’t be much of a break. Kingsley actually put in a word for me at the Ugandan Ministry, and they talked to Uagadou. You know—the Wizarding school in Africa. I was put into contact with their Headmaster, who invited me there for research purposes.” Her eyes went suddenly ablaze with fervor. “They don’t use wands, you see, so I thought it would be positively _fascinating_ to see how they conjure magic with hand movements. Maybe see if I can learn a bit, though I suspect a month is far too little time. And they’re supposed to be masters of Transfiguration and Alchemy, among other things, of course, but those are the things I’m most excited to get their view on and—and I can do some research, adding more historical background to the Wizarding community at large, and how they interact with the Muggle population in Uganda, which can help enrich my classes for the program—” Granger stopped, and the blush that spread across her cheeks then was so appealing it should have been illegal. “Well, I’m quite excited, as you can tell,” she finished, nervously biting her lip.

“Granger,” Draco said seriously, “I hope you will tell me all about it when you get back.”

She blinked, and then reached out and covered his hand, and his eyes locked with her brown ones.

Draco didn’t know how long they stared at each other. The air suddenly felt heavy. Almost too heavy to breathe. Something was on her face and in her eyes, something that made his chest blaze with something curiously like hope. Hope had been such a rare feeling for Draco over the past few years that despite his fear of feeling hopeful for things, he let it happen this time. He let it unfurl in his chest and spread through him, let it warm him and soothe him.

Draco could stare at her eyes all day. All of her, really.

 _Tell her_ , nagged a little voice in his head. _Miranda said you should when you were ready._

 _No_ , came the counterargument. _She’s leaving, and she’s leaving because she’s upset about her break up. Not yet. I’m not ready._ _She’s not ready._ _Not yet. Not here, not now…_

And then she squeezed his hand and withdrew to pick up her almost forgotten tea, and he pulled back to do the same. The moment was over, time resumed, and Granger began showing him the books she brought, telling him brief summaries, and why she had chosen them. They were in the kitchen half an hour more and had finished their tea before he led her to the living room to give her his book, feeling distinctly nervous about his choice. “Well,” said Draco, handing it to her and watching carefully as she appraised the cover, “It’s actually multiple accounts of history. A collection of writings from Purebloods who were disowned by their families.” He twisted his hands together, eyes flicking over her face as she flipped it over to examine the back. He could not read her expression. Draco quickly continued, “They discuss their family’s prejudices and behaviors with an insider perspective, more than other accounts of history might have access to. I know the topic is a bit unsavory, but—it might give you some new information and help with your research. It...helped me to read it. To understand a lot of things.”

Finally, she looked up. “Thank you,” she said, gently. “This is wonderful. I can’t wait.”

Draco felt the warmth in his chest again. “Anytime, Granger,” he said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m certain I will.” It was quiet for a moment before she gave him a small smile and said, “Well...I should probably be going. I would love to stay longer, but I have a lot to prepare for tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Draco, nodding and walking her to the door.

She tucked the book carefully into her bag and began wrapping herself in her scarf again once they were lingering by the front door, and then she turned to face him.

The air immediately became heavy again. Her eyes, intent on his face, were making him almost dizzy. Or giddy. Either way, he felt light as air and his heart was hammering in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, giving him a very shy smile as she peeked up at him. Her eyes and her mouth were so _close_. “To run off right when we start our little book club.”

“That’s okay,” he said sincerely. “I’m glad you get to go do something you’re happy about, Hermione.”

Maybe she had noticed that his voice had become deeper and huskier. Not on purpose. But it had, and even he had heard it. The way she was looking at him now seemed to confirm she had, too. Her eyes were much brighter, almost aflame, and Draco found himself alternating between gazing at them and taking brief, hungry glances down to her mouth.

She took a step closer. The air was so heavy that each breath was almost painful.

And then, taking him by surprise, she took another step, curled one hand on the back of neck, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his.

Draco had imagined kissing her for...months.

By now he must have imagined kissing her dozens and dozens of times. Too many times to count.

But it was better than he could have imagined. Her lips were soft and she was warm and _perfect_ _;_ she smelled like gardenia and vanilla and he wanted to drown in her.

It was a careful kiss on her part. Just a brief touch of her lips to his, and then another, and another, and her fingers came up tentatively to trace his jaw.

Something about that bashful little hand movement and her fingers on his skin undid him a little. Draco’s hands came to tangle in her hair, and he deepened the kiss with a tilt of his head and a slide of his tongue along her bottom lip, and she parted her lips to give him more access. He pulled her a little closer, the tip of his tongue touched hers, and she let out a delightful little moan into his mouth. The sound shot straight below his belt and his hands ran more desperately through her hair.

But Draco still just kissed her slowly. Despite the urgency he felt he was holding back, he would let her take things the direction she wanted, whatever she wanted; he was completely and utterly at her mercy, still drowning in Granger’s perfect, perfect scent and the feel of her against him—

With a little gasp, however, she pulled quickly and suddenly away, pushing slightly on his chest with her hands and stumbling a few steps backward. “I’m—that wasn’t—” She was breathing rapidly, and when she stared up at him, she looked vaguely panicked.

 _T_ _ell her_ , roared the voice in Draco’s head, the braver one, through his fog of confusion, delight, and arousal. _She kissed you! Tell her, tell her, say it_ _—_

He cleared his throat, but the words got stuck as he stared at her. Desperately, he tried to force words together in a coherent way from the jumble of his thoughts, but before he could say anything, Granger was slinging her bag over her shoulder, avoiding his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, her face slowly getting redder. “I shouldn’t have—I’ve just gone through a break-up and my emotions are everywhere, you know, and—and so I’m doing odd, stupid things, I—that wasn’t appropriate at all, I’m so sorry, and I should...I need to go.”

Appearing highly mortified, she spun away.

 _S_ _top her!_ shouted the same voice in Draco’s head, a voice shockingly similar to Miranda’s . _Be vulnerable!_ _Reach out! S_ _top her!_

But the other voice was back, too, and it was saying: _No, you idiot,_ s _he’s just confused, it’s not about you! She_ _even_ _said it, she’s broken up with Weasley and was just seeking_ _a distraction_ _and you were here._ _S_ _he called kissing you_ _odd_ _, and it is; she would never have actual interest, not in_ _you_ _..._

Draco spent too long standing there, frozen, at war with himself. And Granger was quick.

Before he could decide what to say or bring himself to move, she had fled out the front door.


End file.
